


Of Beasts And Men

by Allegro



Category: Les Misérables (1978), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A darker look at Perkins!Javert, I promise I have fluffier stuff for these two stored away, Implied beating, Les Miserables 1978 - Freeform, M/M, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegro/pseuds/Allegro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The convicts in Toulon Prison are more beasts then men. Inspector Javert becomes fixated on a prisoner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Beasts And Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is for fun, non profit use only. I own nothing.

The convicts in Toulon Prison are more beasts then men; he establishes this in his mind as they work the wheel, heavy foot after heavy foot, the stink of sweat and filth a pinch on the ends of his pale nostrils.

There is a new face among them; this man’s head is up, his back is straight, his hands braced against the wood. Even with the first signs of a heavy beard, he is youthful, handsome features not yet made gaunt and ragged by the toil of the galleys.

The man’s eyes are blue, bright. They stare up, unabashed, at the guards that stand above.

Javert enquires about the prisoner. He is given a number. He asks for a name.

Jean Valjean.

Javert looks at Valjean’s hands, at the pull of muscle barely visible in the gape of his shirt. He stands a minute longer, and then he turns on his heel and leaves the room.

.

The next time he encounters Valjean, it is beneath the hard glare of sun. The heat is intense and his men shift and swallow in their uniforms. Sweat collects in the bristle of his brow beneath his hat, and his own uniform, pristine and freshly pressed, lies flat and airless against his skin.

A barrage of rock is let loose above. A prisoner is trapped beneath it. His skin begins to bleed an unnatural pallor. Javert calls for a wedge, but he can see, even with the dust in his eyes, that it is hopeless.  

There is a disturbance from within the formless shapes of the other prisoners. Without thinking, without asking for permission, Valjean advances forward, falls on his hands and knees, and slides his body beneath the massive lump of rock and pushes his back against it.

It moves. Slowly at first, inching up, but then Valjean squares his shoulders and bares his teeth and tries again and two other prisoners stride forward and pull the unfortunate from beneath the stone.

The air is thick and moist, exhausting to the limbs and dulling to the mind. Javert takes a few steps forward, towards the prisoner who upon noticing his approach, instantly tenses.

Javert looks up the broken pulley on the cliff, and then down, to the leathery face of Valjean.

He says nothing, and goes back to his watch.

.

The first time 24601 is brought to him; it is the day after the prisoner’s attempt at escape. He’d received the papers this morning, alongside the decision of the military tribunal for an extended sentence.  Javert polishes the buttons on his uniform until they shine.

Beneath the light of his small cell office, Valjean’s legs tremble. He looks smaller, more depleted in the baggy shell of his clothes, irons shackled around his wrists and ankles and across his impressive chest. The binder around his neck has been drawn tighter to the skin; a red welt is barely visible beneath the rim of the metal.

Javert issues the statement. Valjean looks at him, eyes wide and blue and meek. His brown hair is wild and curly around his face, which still retains the slightest touch of boyish naiveté. It is a strange sight on this dirty, dismal man.

“I am requested by law to inquire if you have anything to say on your behalf.” Javert sits back and dutifully lifts his gaze to Valjean.  24601 keeps his eyes low, and a silence stretches between them.

“Yes.”

He has never heard Valjean speak, minus the grunts and curses that mingles with the general din of the other convicts. But his voice is oddly soft, not rough, and is almost apologetic.

“Well?”

Valjean swallows.

“I wish to give you my sacred promise, Monsieur.”

He would usually dismiss it. But Javert’s attention is caught; he pushes himself forward, eyebrows knotting together. His own words are deftly inquisitive, a mirror of Valjean’s tone.

“What? What’s that?”

“I’ve tried to live like a man, no more,” A blaze in the blue irises, and Javert is surprised he didn’t notice it before. “If you treat men like animals, that is what you’ll get.”

Javert pauses. He clicks his tongue, and sighing, turns his face to the opposite wall.

“Three months in the hole for insolence,” He lifts his quill, and signs the tribunal document. “Take him away.”

Valjean struggles as he is lead back. There is a tear in his voice, a strained pitch that threatens to snap. Javert turns over another paper, and pays it no heed.

.

Javert waits three weeks. Valjean is kept within the bricks of the old prison, where he himself was born and raised, and it is there where he keeps his own quarters; small and banal and square.

His office is next door, and beside it is an unused chamber that sits empty, minus a large oak table that has been there since he was a child. Once upon a time it was a makeshift rack, where prisoners were bolted down and then whipped, be it with thick binded leather or a martinet edged with iron. Each day since Valjean has been in solitary confinement; Javert has paused by this ill-used room and peered through into the shadowy confine of the place, riddled with cobweb.

 A report reaches him. Valjean had tried to clamor up to squeeze through his cell’s window. A paltry effort, but it’s enough to add another six months to his sentence and for Javert, it is the perfect excuse.

He gives the order. It surprises his men for Javert is one to rarely use his hands, for his steel tipped tongue is enough to warrant freedom or death for a prisoner, but none the less Valjean is taken from his cell, stripped to the waist and tied face up on the table.

Javert excuses the guards from that quarter of the prison, sending them off on other errands, and as the night finally descends, Javert straightens his uniform and retrieves the leather martinet. Through the wall, he can hear the rise and fall of rugged breath.

The convict’s wrists are rubbed raw from where he has tried to struggle, and they’ve weighed down the robes with chains to keep him grounded. He is strong indeed, a beast unbroken, and he turns his gaze toward the tall shadow that stands silhouetted in the doorway.

There is silence save each gulping gasp of Valjean’s breath and as Javert lays down the martinet on the floor, there is a crease in the convict’s brow that eventually begins to shine with sweat as Javert unbuckles his breeches.

He makes a sound then, a plea bubbling on his lips, but Javert’s answer is short and sharp.

“Did I give you permission to speak?”

Valjean’s mouth clamps shut.

The boy trembles as Javert prepares himself. It is a simple fact that the young man shall feel no pain; Javert is bringing that on himself. And there are those who say he is completely without mercy.

Javert works his fingers deep inside himself, until a certain nerve causes him to jerk and his eyes to slide shut. The oil he has in his desk is more than sufficient for lubrication. He will not spit on his hand; he is not some animal.

 Valjean is chained, and therefore unable to aid himself in this specific part of the preparation, so with a curling lip Javert obliges. It takes a while to encourage the prisoner’s physical reciprocation, and Javert is almost insulted at the time it takes for the blood to flow correctly in order to maintain the appropriate stiffness,  but patience is a virtue he holds in high esteem. He neglects to meet Valjean’s eyes, which appear urgent, watery, beneath the thin veil of moonlight.

 He turns his head away as Javert mounts himself on him, sinking him deep into his body, and at this new, addictive pressure a cry is ripped from the convict’s throat and his hips involuntarily buck.

 Javert's fingers tangle in 24601's filthy hair as he rides him. The man below him, exhausted, barely has enough energy for curses; he bites back tears, and Javert cocks an eyebrow.  The hand on his scalp loosens, tenders, as if quieting a horse, and suddenly Valjean is still, shivering beneath his touch.  It’s a pathetic sight, but it is an odd quench for the fire in Javert’s belly. He rocks his hips until his own breath splutters short and quick, and he is the first to hit his completion. Valjean grinds his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, his lips moving in hopeless prayers.

 He’s close.

 Javert casually rolls his hips once, twice, thrice.

 Warmth fills him.  Valjean emits a groan that cracks into a sob, and his impending shudders are violent and Javert prides himself on his ability to retain his composure in contention with this base animal.

 None the less, he retains a grip on the prisoner’s hair, and despite the grease it fascinates him with its softness. Valjean is shaking, boyish eyes stretched wide, and Javert lets his attention linger on the quivering crown of his lip. But the moment passes, and Javert removes himself from the convict, retreating to the corner to freshen himself.

 After he himself is tided, he calls for the guard and departs. He sits next door in his office for the reminder of the night. There are sounds, feeble and half formed, leaking through the bricks and as Javert signs his documents, he rustles his papers a little louder.

The morning draws near. It has rained during the night, and the air is damp and cool, the light soft. It trickles through the window of Javert’s office, washing away the shallow dusk of the evening. Through the wall, he swears he hears the chatter of teeth, but that is ridiculous for they are in the midst of a hot summer.

.

As he observes the constant grind of the wheel, he notes a man bent, hair bedraggled and long, concealing all facial features from view. His whole body is crooked over, his head hanging low and sad.

Javert wracks his brain, and frowning, asks for the identity of such a (thankfully) defeated figure.

Jean Valjean alters his head an inch up; the face hard, the eyes hollow, but upon seeing Javert he acutely drops his chin to his chest and does not look up again.

The muscles in Javert’s jaw tense; the scout next to him shifts from foot from foot, and his swallow is near audible.

Javert does not stay this time. As he marches back to his study, he is aware of a twitch beginning in his left arm, a flinch that strays to the corner of his mouth.

.

Jean Valjean is brought to him again.

The face is thinner. The lips are raw, the brow heavy, the skin rough and tanned and hanging loose on his bones. A rattish mane hangs to his chest.

The eyes are sunken, and turned down.

Javert repeats the basic protocol for a hearing of this sort, and then invites the prisoner (and it is hard not to repress a smile) to see if he has anything to say.

Valjean growls something in the bowels of his throat.

“Speak up!” Javert’s voice fills the room; the two guards behind Valjean exchange glances.

The prisoner clears his throat, and then his eyelids flicker, and he fixes Javert with a slack glare; sick to the core with loathing.

“Someday I’ll kill you.”

The guards leap forward, as if sprung. They restrain Valjean, who just continues to stand, his gaze hot on Javert.

There is a painful tightness in Javert’s chest.

“Six months in the hole for disrespect.”

Valjean spits at him. Javert pulls back the tribunal papers; sighs, and looks elsewhere.

The convict is yanked back out the door, to the mangy slum with the tiny window and rats the size of dogs.

Javert lays the papers on the desk. The ends are crumpled with the press of his fingers. He tries to smooth them out, but only succeeds in creasing them further.

.

 

The guards have left him bare from his waist up; tied him face down, in the room with the oak table, in the room direct to Javert's quarters.

 The muscles in his back quiver; clench. The unclean hair is an obscuring weight over his face and across his neck. The skin on his back is clear, unmarred. Still the back of a reasonably youthful man.

 Javert taps the martinet against his boot.

 Valjean chuckles beneath his breath; bitter, rough.

 "Come to take your fill, have you?"

 "Quiet." Javert takes a step into the room. He fingers the end of the leather straps; thoughtful. Five lashes are customary for the classic misdemeanour. For the attempted escapee however, leaving it at fifteen is obscenely generous.

 "How fitting." Valjean continues, even as Javert's knuckles tighten. "That I should be tied face down."

 Javert may be slight in frame, but his aim and speed is infamous. The sudden assault of the lash leaves a single, red strip down Valjean's back. The convict twists as a strangled gasp, more of surprise then pain, rattles past his lips.

 "You should be aware," Javert begins coolly. "That you are now no better than an animal, a convict that must labour beneath..." Without really meaning to he ghosts an ungloved hand down the shuddering flesh of Valjean's back. "...and service the honest man."

 "I've seen animals," Valjean's voice is shaky, but carries an air that makes Javert's temple throb. The chains clink as he attempts to push himself forward, away from Javert's lingering touch. "You should look closer at your guards, Inspector."

 Another strike. Javert is gifted with an eye for the perfect angle, the perfect timing for how to land and then retreat a blow. The leather is weighty, and soon to be soggy with blood.

 "Your insolence is astounding." Another hit. Valjean arches and grits his teeth. A heat stirs in Javert's blood. "But I shouldn't expect less from a thief."

 The weight of the word sags the power in Valjean's shoulders, and Javert beats him with precision, even if his own breath becomes more unstable through each grunt and restrained cry he manages to wrangle free from the convict.

 He finishes. Valjean has reduced himself to stubborn silence, as if to minimise Javert's enjoyment of such an act.

 Javert steadies himself. He drops the martinet.

 He leaves Valjean to the guards and excuses himself to his quarters, for which he is grateful are in such close proximity, for the inside of his breeches are soiled.

 

.

 

.

Along the prison wall there is commotion. Javert silences the guards, and draws close.

 A pulley lies weak and useless; its joint is broken. Tangles of rope hang unchecked over the side of the edge in a scatter of wood and crumbling stone.

 The sun is a heartless beat on the scattering figures. Voices rising and falling, and a crowd of spectators, prisoners and guardians both, all gathered and looking down.

 Valjean, supported by nothing but the rope burns on his bare hands, is untangling the panicking victim from the shattered, suspended equipment. He forces the workman's foot through a self-made loop, and a cry comes from above to pull him up.

 The gibbering idiot, near enough in a faint, is hauled up. All attention is focused on him, but Javert's eyes, as they have always been, are on Valjean.

 Valjean begins to drag himself up, straining with the effort.

 And then, he is still.

 He twists his head, and glances down at the water. In the hard sunlight, Javert spies a sudden gleam in the beaten blue of his eyes.

 For a moment, their gazes lock; inmate and jailor, prisoner and guard.

  _"My sacred promise. One day I will..."_

 He lets go.

 An inhuman shriek, arms flailing wildly; a crash, and then a shape sinking deep and down.

 Shouts and exclamations. One convict swears coarsely. The guards are already hoisting their rifles around their chests, are already barking for the men to get down to the boats.

 Javert can only watch the churn of the current beneath the waters.

 There is no luck. They traverse the entirety of the lake three times. They scout the woods, along the shoreline, and question surrounding villages.

 "Nothing." The young guard with the stupid face. "He's dead for certain."

 Javert thinks of the arms, the arms, so powerful and built, pushed against the heavy wheel. The eyes, blue and trembling and determined. The figure flung like a rag doll into the depths.

 The fool keeps gabbling.

 "Shall we call off the search, Inspector?"

 Javert looks out across the waters. He shakes his head, as slow and grave as death, and then goes to write his report. 


End file.
